


Welcome to the Family

by hadewijch



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Agnieszka's parents, Anxiety, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Fluff, New Baby, New Parent, syrupy sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-27 05:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hadewijch/pseuds/hadewijch
Summary: Sarkan had never quite comprehended the enormity of what he had done to Agnieszka's family – to a dozen families in the Valley – until he was faced with protecting and nurturing a family of his own.





	Welcome to the Family

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [So very lovely](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15655818) by [pride_and_pancakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pride_and_pancakes/pseuds/pride_and_pancakes). 



The first time he sees her, she is wrapped tightly in a bundle, with just the pink roundness of her face peeking out. Her infant scowl is a miniature of his; she has a shock of dark hair on top of her head, the same color as his; and when she opens her eyes, they are dark and glimmer with more intelligence than he would ever have thought a newborn could have. Clearly his child is a prodigy.

“Take her, my lord,” says the midwife, smiling under her plump cheeks, and before he quite understands what is happening, Sarkan has an impossibly tiny, unbearably breakable human being in his arms. She is a small, warm, solid weight, and she writhes a bit in her swaddling. Every muscle in his arms and shoulders immediately tenses as he concentrates on holding his child correctly, reminding himself of the treatises he has been reading for months: support her head and neck, don’t jostle, keep her propped up at just the right angle. The baby lies in his arms, calm and alert, and eyes him curiously. He must not be doing too badly, then. He exhales a long, shaky breath.

From the bed, propped up in a nest of pillows, Agnieszka laughs. “You look terrified,” she chuckles, and pats the bed beside her. “Come here.”

“I am perfectly capable—” Sarkan begins, frowning, but he finds that despite all his efforts, he is not capable, not at all. There have, in fact, been very few times in his long life when he has found himself at such a loss. He wavers in place, wondering which would be the lesser risk: to hand the small, fragile bundle back to the midwife, or to brave the few steps between the bed and himself while carrying her. Agnieszka laughs again, and the midwife has mercy on him, scooping the baby up unceremoniously and depositing her safely in the arms of her mother.

“You’ve never held a baby, my lord?” the midwife asks him. He merely shakes his head. To her credit, she is trying not to smirk, and given the trouble he gave her earlier in the day… He would protest her dismissiveness, under normal circumstances, but he has a feeling that normalcy as he once understood it has just ceased to exist.

Sarkan finds his way to the edge of the bed and watches as Agnieszka unwraps their child like a gift. Tiny arms and legs emerge from the bundle of blankets, exposed to the cool air. The baby’s face wrinkles like a withered apple, and she wails, a thin, high sound that makes his stomach drop and sets his teeth on edge. He looks from Agnieszka to the midwife in alarm, but neither seems to share his apprehension. The midwife clucks softly and helps Agnieszka put the baby to her breast, and the cries quiet almost immediately.

“She was hungry, that’s all,” Agnieszka tells him reassuringly. She catches his eye and smiles. She is pale and tired after the day’s ordeal, with shadows under her eyes like bruises, but her eyes themselves are bright, and the magic around her thrums with a deep, wild joy. She is a mother; it seems to come to her as easily as breathing. He wonders whether fatherhood will come as naturally for him.

He doubts it.

He presses close as Agnieszka cradles the baby, letting his daughter’s miniature fingers half-close around his, running his thumb along her rows of impossibly small, pink, perfect toes, stroking the fine, dark down on the top of her head with the tips his fingers. He has been attempting to prepare himself for her arrival since late summer, but nothing, he realizes, could have readied him for this mingled devotion and terror, infinite, unendurable, and fierce, stretching him until he is afraid he will burst. All of the foundations on which he has built his life shift beneath him as he falls precipitously in love.

***

Of course, the day hadn’t started in any special way; life-changing days never had for him yet. When Agnieszka’s pains began that morning, he went to fetch her mother and the midwife, and then followed the women confidently toward the room that would serve as the birthing chamber. He never expected to be all but banished from his own tower.

“A birthing room is no place for a man,” the midwife declared to him, “especially the father. You’ll only be underfoot.”

“Nonsense. What would you do without me should an emergency arise?” Sarkan argued. “It is an unnecessary risk.” Even though healing was never one of his strengths, he had written early in Agnieszka’s pregnancy to borrow all the obstetrical and pediatric texts the Willow would part with, and he spent months poring over them as intently as he had once studied his volumes of magical theory.   

“And how many babies have you birthed, my lord?” the midwife challenged. Her mouth settled into a determined line, and she crossed her arms over her chest. It was an indication of how successfully he had integrated himself into the life of the valley that she would dare to defy him this way, he half-mused, but now was not the time to count small victories. Through the open door to the bedroom ( _his own room_ , he thought indignantly) he could see Galinda, Agnieszka’s mother, re-folding the stack of linens he had already prepared perfectly well himself. She looked up and shrugged sympathetically.

Sarkan lowered his brows and refocused on the midwife, who was still blocking the door. “Never mind that. I have done extensive study—”

“My lord,” the midwife sighed, “I have delivered hundreds of children and birthed six of my own. This is women’s business. Besides, Nieshka is young and strong and will have hardly any need of me or your books either, I warrant.”

“Be that as it may—” he began, but at that point Agnieszka crowded past the midwife, kissed him, and then, to his consternation, shooed him away.

“It’s just the way things are done,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Go and see my father. He’ll be expecting you.”

And so Sarkan found himself splitting firewood with Andrey in Dvernik all morning, a task he was forced to do by hand because Agnieszka’s father insisted that magic would scare off potential buyers. From the twinkling of his eyes, though, Sarkan suspected the task was meant to take his mind off his worries more than anything else.

“Nieshka’s young and strong,” Andrey had reassured him as the sun rose higher and the day wore on. “She’ll be fine.”

_Young and strong,_ Sarkan thought irritably. _Why does everyone keep saying that?_ Plenty of women had difficulty in childbirth, even the young and strong ones; Agnieszka herself had been called to attend a few of them. But he knew that in her case, youth and strength counted for more than they did for most others. The knowledge didn’t make the prickle of his anxiety go away, but it eased it a little, and he had to confess that the exercise did, too. He was worn out by the time they stopped for a lunch of bread, cheese, and beer in the late afternoon, and Andrey’s quiet, cheerful presence steadied him more than he was prepared to admit.

They sat outside with their meal on a low bench under the front window of Agnieszka’s parents’ house, and Sarkan leaned back against the wall and regarded Andrey with curiosity. The man had raised five children in the shadow of the Wood ( _and in the shadow of the Tower_ , Sarkan reminded himself, wincing). And yet, among all the measures he had taken to prepare himself for this day, Sarkan had never bothered to talk with Agnieszka’s father. Their relationship had not gotten off to an easy start – Andrey had had good reasons not to trust him – but for the last few years, at least, they’d operated under an easy truce.

How, though, could he dare to ask for Andrey’s advice? Sarkan had never even asked for Andrey’s pardon; he had never quite comprehended the enormity of what he had done to this family – to a dozen families in the Valley – until he was faced with protecting and nurturing a family of his own. It was difficult not to see himself the way they must have seen him: as a monster.

 As if sensing his thoughts, Andrey turned toward Sarkan and clapped him heartily on the shoulder, trying to reassure him once again. Normally Sarkan’s spine would have stiffened involuntarily at the contact, but he slumped against the side of the house instead. He dug the toe of his polished boot into the dirt before he finally spoke.

“Tell me, Andrey,” he said quietly to Agnieszka’s father, not daring to look him in the face, “how is it that you didn’t try to stop me that day?”

They both knew which day he was referring to, even though it was years ago now: the harvest festival, the day of the last Choosing. The day he stole Andrey’s daughter, took her from her family and her village, and made her his unwilling apprentice.

“That would hardly have been a fair fight, an axe-wielding lummox like me against a stripling like you,” Andrey replied. Mischievous creases formed at the corners of his eyes and mouth. It was an old joke between them, but Sarkan gazed stonily ahead, and Andrey eventually sighed. Suddenly he seemed old, his shoulders bent. “What good would it have done?” he said, careful not to look at Sarkan, careful to keep his voice level. “I couldn’t protect her.”

“From _me_ ,” Sakan said, a bitter acknowledgement. If not exactly an apology, it was the closest he had come yet.

“From you,” Andrey agreed neutrally. For several moments there was no sound but the wind in the budding trees. But then Andrey’s gaze returned to Sarkan, and his eyes twinkled with something between frustration and forgiveness. Perhaps it had been close enough.

“It’s a good thing Nieshka can take care of herself, and all of the rest of us, too.” He grinned wickedly. “I can only hope you’ll have such a son-in-law as mine, someday.”

  _That_ , Sarkan reflected, _is not exactly a comforting thought_ , but before he could open his mouth to say so, a pinpoint of light flared at the edge of his vision: the charmed candle Agnieszka had made as a signal to her parents crackled into flame. Andrey saw it too, and he turned a face toward Sarkan creased with smiles.

“Let’s go see our little one,” he said, springing to his feet. He offered Sarkan his hand.

***

Sarkan is not thinking of what passed between himself and Agnieszka’s father, though. He is lost in the intricate beauty of his baby’s tiny shell of an ear when there is a soft knock at the door, and Galinda and Andrey peek around the corner. Agnieszka looks up and grins.

“What are you doing over there, you two?” she chides playfully. “Come and look at your beautiful new granddaughter.”  Sarkan watches them interact with each other – grandmother, grandfather, mother, and child – and takes mental notes on technique as Andrey scoops the baby up in his large, practiced hands.

“I think she’ll have Nieshka’s curls,” Galinda muses, as Andrey cradles his granddaughter. “I’ll have to teach you how to braid her hair, Sarkan, since Nieshka’s never been able to manage it.”

“I already know how,” Sarkan says absently, then flushes as Agnieszka rolls her eyes and Galinda smiles approvingly.

“Well, let me teach you a trick, then,” Andrey says to Sarkan, as the baby begins to fuss. “This one always worked on Nieshka when she had the colic.”

He tucks the baby's head under his chin and hums a lullaby, a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest. At first the baby's eyes widen, startled by the noise, but then her face relaxes, and her eyes drift closed.

“Andrey always has had a knack with babies,” Galinda smiles, folding her hands over her apron.

“Now you try,” Andrey says, passing Sarkan the infant. He clumsily gathers her against his chest. She whimpers, and he pauses, unsure.

“Go on,” Andrey encourages.

Sarkan hums and sways slightly - it just seems the thing to do - and eventually the baby quiets, nestling into the hollow of his throat. The rest of the room falls away; there’s nothing but the two of them, himself and his daughter, and she becomes a warm, sleepy weight, sweet-smelling and small. _It’s almost like casting a spell_ , he thinks. He feels the same sense of focus, of fascination; the same sense of quiet joy. He is so caught up that he doesn’t know how much time has passed when he finally comes back to himself and looks up.

Agnieszka and her parents are beaming.

“She likes it,” Agnieszka croons, half asleep herself, and he can’t help it; his face splits into the same besotted grin the rest of them are wearing.

“Sleep when the baby sleeps,” Galinda says wisely, and she shows Sarkan how to lay the sleeping baby in her cradle. Agnieszka smiles, exhausted; Galinda kisses her gently on the forehead, then turns unexpectedly and kisses Sarkan’s cheek as well.

“We’ll be in one of the guest rooms if you need us,” she says. Andrey gives Sarkan an approving nod as he and Galinda close the door quietly behind them.

_Family_ , he realizes. _This is what it means._ He never expected to be part of one, and he’s still not sure exactly how or when he became part of this one, but suddenly he’s fervently grateful for each of them: Galinda and Andrey, Agnieszka’s brothers and their spouses, and even the nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles and cousins who will invade his tower in the morning with their mess and clamor and muddy boots. Together they are as wise as his books and as strong as his stone walls, and with them, he finally realizes, he is stronger and wiser, too.

Agnieszka is asleep, her breathing regular and deep. Sarkan brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her on the temple, then looks down at the tiny, sleeping person in the cradle, only hours old. He can’t help but press a light kiss to her forehead as well.

“Welcome to the family,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> I liked the idea introduced in "So very lovely" that Sarkan had always wanted a family of his own, and I decided to follow up with them nine months later, to explore what that might entail for him, Agnieszka, and Agnieszka's family.
> 
> Feedback is welcome! I use these fics as exercises/procrastination when I'm having trouble with an ongoing original work, and I would love to hear your thoughts.


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